Rhythmic sounds of the raindrops, Orchestrated with the occasional thunder. Pleasant as an age old glass harmonica, With the tunes like the sounds of the heaven. A medicine to an ailing soul.
The cuckoo's call is muted by the winds, Only we hear is the earth guzzling the downpour. A few peek from the light, a few rescind it. Splashing through the puddles, Reminiscing the lost past. Trying to relate how we were, better off as kids.
The age is far gone where it was a play, now a burden. We've lost, lost to the time. Let gone of happiness they give. Tiny thoughts and simple dreams.